what fell beast came forth from eve's rib
by AvaRosier
Summary: "You must extend your head to the left…yes, like that…chin a little higher…more. Perfect." The last was a puff of air in her ear. Lydia began to turn her head as Peter directed, but paused when she realized just how vulnerable it would leave her before him. Meeting his innocent gaze with an arch of her eyebrow, Lydia pursed her lips. "That would expose my neck to you."


"You must extend your head to the left…yes, like that…chin a little higher…more. _Perfect_." The last is a puff of air in her ear.

Lydia begins to turn her head as Peter directs, but pauses when she realizes just how vulnerable it would leave her before him. Meeting his innocent gaze with an arch of her eyebrow, Lydia purses her lips. "That would expose my neck to you."

"A mere coincidence, my dear." He says with a conciliatory shrug of his shoulders. Underneath her touch, she can feel the bunch of powerful sinew, barely kept decent by the soft cotton of his nice navy button-down.

She places her right hand back in the clasp of his left and feels his other arm circle her back, supporting her left arm so that she could remember to keep the elbow high.

Peter's breath is warm on her cheek. Her eyelids are hooded as she tilts her head backwards and to the left. She feels the jump of her pulse underneath the tender flesh of her throat. When a soft hiss emanats from Peter, Lydia could swear that the touch of his palm between her shoulder blades burned.

"And, step, side, together…forward, side , together…" he intones, guiding her around the spacious room. She allows her eyes to close and permits him to lead her so that she may lose herself in the rhythm and the feel of his body so near hers.

Peter Hale has a _presence_, and the restrained strength and competency in his movements excites her. Lydia could feel the sweet ache growing between her thighs as he holds her ever closer.

They complete the sequence, but he keeps her extended in the position.

"Again. Practice does make perfect."

It didn't begin when Lydia Martin realized she missed Peter Hale.

When he had haunted her dreams and dogged her every waking step, there had been no sanctuary to which she could escape. At night, she would undress before the mirror, shuddering in revulsion as Peter appeared over her shoulder and skimmed a finger down her bare arm with an appreciative noise.

She would glare at him with angry tears clinging to her eyelashes as he tried to soothe her while she rocked back and forth on the toilet, cramps tearing through her lower belly.

She would hide herself away underneath the covers of her bed at night, her hands plunged down the front of her pajama pants and underwear, holding her breath as she rocked her pelvis into the mattress over and over desperately- hoping that her orgasm would come before he did. But even this most private of acts had no longer been hers. She'd feel the dip in the mattress on the other side of the bed, and then the bastard would just talk and talk while she tried not to sob. Eventually, she gave in and kept going until the release was pounding through her body.

("_Oh, that feels wonderful, darling_." He would groan as he pleasure echoed for him. "_Very different from the way it feels for a man, I'll say._")

"You'll never be alone, Lydia. You have me."

Until she didn't have him anymore and there was an empty, gnawing absence in her life. She felt unsettled, like she utterly lacked any security.

This is where it begins.

At first Lydia had avoided the pack meetings. But then Stiles had shown up on her front porch one night and begged her to go if for no other reason than to keep Jackson from being too much of a douche that Derek ended up ripping his head off. So she goes.

At the first meeting she attends, she resolutely refuses to look at Peter. It's the first time she's seen him since the night the Kanima was stopped. Her reaction surprises her, however. Going in, she expects to be shaky and terrified, and she _absolutely despises_ the prospect of every werewolf in the group knowing because they can hear her heart racing. But instead, she is calm and finds that she has no qualms about meeting his eyes boldly with a challenge of her own.

This earns her a quirk of his eyebrow and a nod of what she thinks is respect.

Contrary to what others may think, Lydia does not shy away from mulling over everything she had noticed over the last two years. At the pack meetings, she multitasks by taking attentive and precise notes, and she plays psychological cat-and-mouse games with Peter. She's testing him, you see.

One night, when pizza is ordered for dinner, nobody understands why Peter had requested one with tuna, anchovies, and capers before the meeting. Derek points out that Peter had always despised tuna. He simply shrugs and takes the box from Isaac, then offers Lydia the first pick of slices. She takes two. It is her favorite pizza, after all.

It only takes Stiles trying to wheedle information out of Derek in front of everyone, asking how Peter had even been resurrected, for Lydia to realize that the Alpha hasn't told anyone exactly how Peter had come back to life or Lydia's part in the whole dastardly plan. He declines to share this information with Stiles and the pack. He doesn't even look in Lydia's direction.

She just thinks Derek doesn't want the teenagers in the pack to know that their big bad Alpha had been taken down by a slip of a seventeen year-old girl.

It was clear at that point that Peter Hale knew her more intimately than anyone could ever hope to. This could be a horrifying prospect, or it could be a measure of security. And Lydia refused to live her life in constant fear. Fine, so Peter knew every fantasy, every dream she'd had for her future, and how she felt about people but never actually said to anyone's face. He also knew how she strategized.

That's what made their little dances at pack meetings so fun.

It's after one such meeting that Peter corners Lydia in the partially refurbished kitchen, lips quirked up in a serene smile. He holds up a flyer for her to peruse. "There's a new restaurant out in Bakersfield, people can have a nice meal and then enjoy a lovely waltz around the dance floor. I could give you lessons, if you should so accept." It's a devil's bargain.

Lydia doesn't bat an eye or pout. Of course Peter would know she's never really been able to take ballroom dancing classes.

And of course he knows she's always wanted to.

She had always pictured waltzing with a man, the dance allowing her to feel mature and to attain a more adult intimacy than making out with her sixteen year-old boyfriend under the lacrosse bleachers.

At least he has the courtesy to ask her when every werewolf is no longer in ear-shot

"I hope you don't expect me to pay for my dinner, and I certainly won't owe you any sexual favors. But I'll be buying my own dress." She retorts with a hand on her hip and an arch of a perfectly waxed eyebrow.

He simply smiles and then folds the flyer back into his pocket.

"Excellent. How does this Thursday evening sound for our first lesson?"

"4:30. And I won't practice in one of those decrepit deathtraps the pack has called headquarters." Peter doesn't miss a beat.

"I know a place we can use."

Lydia realizes she's smiling as Peter leads her around the ballet studio. They're waltzing to a song now. She thinks the sweeping circles they make are her favorite.

She's also extremely aroused now- she might as well be like a live wire thrumming with pleasure. Her dance partner must be perfectly aware of it. She doesn't do anything but step backwards again as he steps forward, steps to the side as he mirrors her, and then they both slide their feet together and sweep around to the next sequence of steps.

And then she feels light headed because by this point, Peter is pressing her close enough that her entire front is in contact with his. She likes the way that, even in heels, her breasts are nestled against his broad chest. She likes the way she can feel him hard against her belly.

He steps forward but stops her from stepping backwards, and instead lifts her a scant inch until she's straddling his muscular thigh. Lydia can barely hold her weight up on the tippy-toes of her heels. But she finds she does not need to, because Peter is stronger than Man and can keep her imprisoned here as long as he wishes. So, what Lydia does is use what little leverage she has to rock herself along the corded muscles trapped between her thighs until he cannot possibly miss the dampness beginning to soak through his dress pants.

She rubs herself against him until the pleasure is suffusing her body, flushing her skin with heat and making her weak from the effort of tensing her entire body against his.

Lydia arches her back and lets out a breathy moan. And then she opens her eyes to look at poor Jackson, all tied up and bound in the corner of the studio.

It was already too late by the time Jackson began to notice.

It was understandable; after all, he'd been dealing with a lot lately. Between being tormented with the knowledge that something was happening to him, finding out he had been transforming into a giant lizard and attacking people, and then dying and becoming a werewolf- getting caught up with Lydia had taken a backseat.

At the first few pack meetings he showed up for, he didn't understand why Lydia was sitting next to him stiff as a board while she glared at Peter Hale with an intensity that had made many a teenage boy wilt. And when he had followed Lydia's line of sight across the room, the older werewolf was just standing there with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face. The whole thing raised his hackles, but then he'd been distracted by Derek talking about compelled obedience towards an Alpha and _fuck no, asshole_.

He wrote the whole thing off as Lydia being pissed at Peter for having bit her, even if she'd ended up being immune to the bite.

Then at the next meeting, they were in the abandoned subway car listening to Stiles and Derek and Scott argue. Like they didn't have anything better to do with their time. With his newly sensitive hearing, Jackson realized that Peter was humming a tune. It took another minute before he realized why it sounded so familiar.

He remembered his body jerking in shock and his head twisting around to look at Lydia. Peter was humming one of her favorite songs, _and she was smiling at him_. If Jackson could describe the sensation that trickled down his spine then, he would say it was like someone had walked over his grave.

All these things, Jackson thinks about when he comes to in that dance studio and had to watch, bound and gagged, as Peter Fucking Hale swept Lydia masterfully around the room.

And now, she was rubbing against him like a cat in heat and he knew those noises. She was close, really close. And when she opened her eyes and looked at him, he felt it like a punch to the gut.

_Lydia!_ He screams around the poisoned gag that was keeping him weak and unable to break out of the chains, werewolf or no.

Peter rolls his eyes and answers Jackson's soundless scream with a sardonic smile while the younger man struggles against the restraints. "I don't think you understand, Mr Whittemore. I was inside Lydia's lovely mind for months. I know everything there is to know about her. And I do mean_everything_. It's a strange sort of intimacy she and I share." Peter winds the long, ginger curtain of her hair around his fist and pushes her back up until she's facing him. They're staring at each other, lips close like they're challenging one other to initiate a kiss.

"In a way, I have her to thank for regaining some semblance of my humanity, isn't that right, my darling?"

And then he ducks down to kiss her, and Jackson can feel his wolf howl in agony. His claws extend just enough to pierce the skin around his ribs.

Peter stops, and looks at the triumphant expression on Lydia's face. "Your lipstick?"

Jackson can hear the glee in her voice. "I melted it down, added wolfsbane to it, and remolded it. Do you like it? I renamed the shade '_Mort de Lune'_."

"_Death of the Moon_? Yes, very much. But if I shan't kiss you, then…" He trailed off.

And then they're moving sinuously against each other again, closer than pages in a book. Jackson can make out the way Lydia sucks in her breath, holds it, and then releases it in a rapid shudder. She's always beautiful when she comes. Peter looks enraptured by it, as well.

When she's calmed down, Lydia addresses Jackson without turning around to look at him. She's rubbing her cheek against Peter's shoulder and combing her fingers through the slicked back hair at the nape of his neck. Petting him. She's _petting_ Peter fucking Hale on the head.

"You see, Jackson, there are three Peters: the one before the fire, the one after the fire all full of rage and vengeance, and the one I rebirthed who carried me with him back into his body. He doesn't control me, he belongs to me."

With his exceptional eyesight, Jackson finds his attention drawn to the wall-to-wall mirrors at the far end of the studio. Lydia's murky green eyes pierce him through the reflection and he's frozen in place.

"He's mine. I remade him in _my_ image."


End file.
